Mourning / Weight in the Air From the City by J. Lint

Mourning

The sun arose just enough by then

to kiss the flow of grass at your grave.

Disgust.

My heart crawls with the earthworms

in the compost that’s my love—

away from me.

Can’t seem to leave nothing for you, at your grave,

but my beating heart.

I give you nothing but me.

The wind gets cold as time goes on,

and the leaves fall to my faithful feet.

The ground gets so tough, trying to keep us apart,

but I stay with you…

mourning.

Weight in the Air From the City

It came to me by weight of air.

A bulging breeze;

laughing, dancing, blowing around

the stench of the city.

There was memory there—an ancient memory.

It wafted to me through air,

and the wind felt thin as it appeared.

I felt it near me—breathing cold.

Gray, gaunt, gallant; the thing must be.

That old memory.

She was a setting sun on a winter’s day,

and I didn’t mind at the time,

but it was so bitter cold that night—

hidden away in the city.

Living in that haze while it lasted,

letting it soak my soul, 

the melancholy more real than the joy—

it became home.

That old Memory.

J. Lint is a twenty-two-year-old unpublished poet from Western Pennsylvania. He writes a wide range of topics, and most of the time in free verse. J. likes his poems to have a dark edge—something you can't always put your finger on.